Show me a weight loss plan or book and I'll sniff with interest. Enough interest and I'll buy it. Such as, it says I can have a glass of wine with dinner. Or enjoy the occasional serve of hot chips. Guess what I found at our local bookshop last week, in that case!
G and I are both on a weight loss kick. In his case, it's on doctor's orders as doc has said G's 'bad' cholesterol is too high. G was then sent to a nutritionist who recommended using margarine instead of butter and other ideas that the medical profession believes are better for you, mostly related to using 'fake' food instead of real food.
I have a real beef with that. Pun intended.
We humans didn't evolve for hundreds of thousands of years to eat artificial preservatives and oils bleached to pale yellowness to resemble butter. We ate meat with fat on it. We made butter from cream. We were relatively healthy - aside from the plague and other baddies - until the last few hundred years and particularly the 20th century.
I've just finished reading two books: Sweet Poison and Toxic Oil by Aussie author David Gillespie. These are real eye-openers.
David Gillespie isn't a doctor. His background is as a lawyer. As such, he's an investigator. He hunts down facts, and what he's found out from sifting through layers and centuries of data is that it's the fructose in refined sugar and food that contains it that's making us fat. Killing us, in fact, as sugar is also the culprit behind rising bad cholesterol.
Sugar didn't exist in our diet to the degree it does now, 200 years ago. It was simply too expensive to buy. Yer average Aussie these days eats about 1kg of the stuff a week. Pick up a kilogram bag of sugar and hold it in your hand just to cement the idea. It's no wonder 1 in 5 Australians are obese. Sugar creeps insidiously into just about everything, particularly the 'fat-free' products, which use sugar to enhance the taste in lieu of fat.
And guess what - those little Heart Foundation ticks of approval on food containing vegetable/seed oils should be crosses. The way these oils are produced affects their molecular structure, and not in a good way. Couple that with data produced in the 1950s by a respected scientist, which was taken as gospel by the US government (and later the Aussies), showing that animal fat apparently leads to heart disease, and suddenly we're all being told to eat polyunsaturated oils which can have some pretty nasty side effects. I knew polyunsatured oils can cause macular disease - ie blindness - so have banned them from my kitchen, and if I have to buy packaged food I read the labels very carefully indeed. Animal fat isn't the bad guy it's made out to be, in a nutshell.
These books were written by a man who lost 40kg after cutting out sugar - and still eating animal fat products. Without sugar his health has improved immensely, weight loss irregardless.
As you can surmise by now Sweet Poison tells you all the reasons you should cut out refined sugar from your life. You can eat whole fruit (but not juice it... you're just getting fructose without the fibre if you do). You can even have a glass of dry white or red wine with dinner, as the sugar in wine doesn't break down into fructose. But forget the cakes and sweet biscuits, jams, and - regretfully! - chocolate.
This is going to be rather hard to achieve. Harder for G to achieve that I, as he has a Scotman's sweet tooth and adores his marmalade. And chocolate. And biscuits. He can hoover up three biscuits with one cup of coffee if they're put in front of him.
Since I cut out sugar in my coffee last year, I have less sugar cravings. I don't long for a couple of squares of chocolate after dinner any more. I eat marmalade on my toast maybe twice a year, as I find it too sweet. I prefer a handful of nuts to a sweet biscuit. I do love a good cake though, and as David points out, if party food such as cakes is only eaten at parties or as a rare treat, and you don't have the urge afterwards to get back on the chocolate, biscuits, meringues and other sweet goodies, that's acceptable.
Toxic Oil says eggs are just fine, hunt out grass-fed beef or choose lamb instead, choose free-range chooks who aren't fed on grains heavy on Omega-6, and if you must have chips, fry them in olive oil, or an animal fat such as Supafry. (Don't buy fast food chips, whatever you do.) The book features several handy tables showing the sugar and polyunsaturated oil content of many common supermarket items, so I know what to buy and what to avoid.
Over the last couple of months G has lost five kilograms after a stern talking-to by the nutritionist, and me pointing out he doesn't need two slices of toast laden with marmalade after a breakfast of eggs, spinach, mushrooms and half a grapefruit. He's down to one spoon of sugar in tea and coffee too. I've surreptitiously cut down his portion sizes at other meals, and we don't have carbs every night at dinner, only a couple of times a week, getting carbs from vegetables instead. He's delighted at his weight loss and I'm going to urge him to read these books so we can work together on getting him down to a good weight for his height. In my case I only have about 4kg to lose.
My next task is clearing the food cupboard and fridge of the worst sugar and polyunsaturated oil offenders. I think tucked under the packets of quinoa, couscous, chia seeds and curry powders are some jars of curry paste, possibly bought when G still lived in Adelaide. As I typically make my own curry paste from scratch they're undoubtedly out of date anyway. This will be cathartic. And that's always a good thing.
Monday, October 14, 2013
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
What was he thinking?
My husband G is a lovely bloke. Thoughtful. Generous. Kind. I am very lucky.
He likes to buy me presents, particularly if he's sent overseas on business, and most of the time they hit the mark pretty well.
Earlier this year he travelled to India, and asked me if I'd like him to bring back a sari. Delighted, I said. Cotton, preferably, and with sequins. Something a bit over the top I can turn into an evening dress. Aqua colour. Bless him, he came back with an apple green polyester sari with no sequins. Not what I envisaged for an evening dress so one of my Indian neighbours will have to show me how to wear a sari. We have many Indian neighbours. There'll probably be an occasion to wear one. It's a very pretty sari.
Happy that he'd bought a sari, G then thought he'd buy me something else. Silk clothes are pretty cheap in India, so he bought me a silk top.
I think he probably went into the fashion boutique, as he said it was quite a fashionable little shop, and told the salesgirl, "My wife likes wearing bright colours. What have you got in silk?"
She was undoubtedly overjoyed to offload a safety vest green coloured top, the cut of which is designed to turn anyone with boobs bigger than 32" into an elephant.
He likes to buy me presents, particularly if he's sent overseas on business, and most of the time they hit the mark pretty well.
Earlier this year he travelled to India, and asked me if I'd like him to bring back a sari. Delighted, I said. Cotton, preferably, and with sequins. Something a bit over the top I can turn into an evening dress. Aqua colour. Bless him, he came back with an apple green polyester sari with no sequins. Not what I envisaged for an evening dress so one of my Indian neighbours will have to show me how to wear a sari. We have many Indian neighbours. There'll probably be an occasion to wear one. It's a very pretty sari.
Happy that he'd bought a sari, G then thought he'd buy me something else. Silk clothes are pretty cheap in India, so he bought me a silk top.
I think he probably went into the fashion boutique, as he said it was quite a fashionable little shop, and told the salesgirl, "My wife likes wearing bright colours. What have you got in silk?"
She was undoubtedly overjoyed to offload a safety vest green coloured top, the cut of which is designed to turn anyone with boobs bigger than 32" into an elephant.
I am talking BRIGHT green. Eye-piercing, blinding green. Yes, the glow in the dark colour favoured by all health-and-safety-conscious manual workers everywhere. This photo doesn't do it justice. It makes it look tame.
I am thinking the shop didn't sell many of these; G told me proudly he'd got it on special.
Being a polite person, I thanked him generously and said it was lovely, and tried it on. Because of those pleats at the top and the subsequent flow of fabric it immediately made me look 10kgs heavier. I hoiked it in with a wide turquoise coloured belt, which helped.
Apart from the fit, or lack of fit, the problem is the colour. What the hell do you match blinding green with so you don't look like a roadworker? I guess I can tone it down with aqua and turquoise, and wear it with white capri pants. I could probably wear it under the apple green sari, come to that.
Because it's a present and G was so proud of his shopping capabilities, I am honour bound to wear the top and not give it away. I am too kind a person to let it meet with an accident. I can't even dye it another colour or he'll suspect he made a major error with the fuck-me-that's-green green, and feel bad about it.
So I have to grin and bear it - or in this case, wear it. But... what was he thinking when he went through the decision process on this top?
Has anyone else been giving a present they don't like but have to wear lest the giver get insulted?
Friday, October 4, 2013
The romance of rail
Occasionally I'm stuck in traffic on a railway bridge near my home. I don't like being stuck on bridges; that makes me twitchy. So I divert my attention from potential bridge collapses and imminent death by looking at the train lines below.
They snake off into the distance and around the bend, and I want to sniff the air and jump on a train. To anywhere. Just for the hell of it. Just to see where those silvery lines lead. To go to a place I wouldn't have any reason to go to; a place I haven't been before. The smell of the electricity, the mild rocking motion, and a sense of adventure, of zipping past all those cars trundling slowly down the roads, lifts my mood.
There's something about trains that appeals, despite my hatred of packed peak-hour public transport. Maybe it's the relaxation element (outside peak hour) where you can sit down with a book and let someone else drive. I can't read in cars but I can read in trains.
If I'm not reading, there's scenery. Well, in my case it's usually a troll through western Sydney, much of which ain't pretty, but it's interesting. The demographics change. The Indian woman sitting on her apartment balcony near Parramatta will be an Asian woman by the time you get to Strathfield. The houses on their quarter acre blocks - often fibro, often untidy - which back onto the train line give way to apartments around Parramatta and Westmead, then more houses on smaller blocks - brick, typically - until we hit the inner west and the lovely Italianate homes around Summer Hill and Petersham, and rows of terraces. Then it's into the funkiness of Newtown and Redfern before darkness envelopes us and we pull into Central.
A train ride is a sense of escape. It's still an adventure for me, as I don't ride the train every day. Train rides mean a journey into town for pleasure, or occasionally a client meeting. Earlier this week I had to go to St Leonards, so I took the train and gazed happily out at Sydney harbour as we crossed it on the coat hanger. Blissfully bluesky day, shimmering blue water; heartlifting. You can't always see that if you drive your car across the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
So I find there is still a romance about travelling by train, even in suburban Sydney.
On my trip earlier this week there was real romance in the air, and I wondered what the relationship was. A guy sat opposite me; he was on the train when I alighted, munching McDonald's. He was in his thirties, unremarkable. At Parramatta a Chinese girl in her twenties or thirties got on and sat next to him, snuggling up. He put his arm around her, and for several stops they stayed like that, her head on his shoulder, his face turned towards hers, intensely talking. I was busy looking out the window on my side and only noticed the girl get off several stations later. I assumed the guy got off too, but no, he was still sitting there and got off at Town Hall. I wondered if they were having an affair, grabbing each opportunity to see each other, even if it was only travelling on the train for twenty minutes together. It brings a whole new dimension to the romance of rail.
They snake off into the distance and around the bend, and I want to sniff the air and jump on a train. To anywhere. Just for the hell of it. Just to see where those silvery lines lead. To go to a place I wouldn't have any reason to go to; a place I haven't been before. The smell of the electricity, the mild rocking motion, and a sense of adventure, of zipping past all those cars trundling slowly down the roads, lifts my mood.
There's something about trains that appeals, despite my hatred of packed peak-hour public transport. Maybe it's the relaxation element (outside peak hour) where you can sit down with a book and let someone else drive. I can't read in cars but I can read in trains.
If I'm not reading, there's scenery. Well, in my case it's usually a troll through western Sydney, much of which ain't pretty, but it's interesting. The demographics change. The Indian woman sitting on her apartment balcony near Parramatta will be an Asian woman by the time you get to Strathfield. The houses on their quarter acre blocks - often fibro, often untidy - which back onto the train line give way to apartments around Parramatta and Westmead, then more houses on smaller blocks - brick, typically - until we hit the inner west and the lovely Italianate homes around Summer Hill and Petersham, and rows of terraces. Then it's into the funkiness of Newtown and Redfern before darkness envelopes us and we pull into Central.
A train ride is a sense of escape. It's still an adventure for me, as I don't ride the train every day. Train rides mean a journey into town for pleasure, or occasionally a client meeting. Earlier this week I had to go to St Leonards, so I took the train and gazed happily out at Sydney harbour as we crossed it on the coat hanger. Blissfully bluesky day, shimmering blue water; heartlifting. You can't always see that if you drive your car across the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
So I find there is still a romance about travelling by train, even in suburban Sydney.
On my trip earlier this week there was real romance in the air, and I wondered what the relationship was. A guy sat opposite me; he was on the train when I alighted, munching McDonald's. He was in his thirties, unremarkable. At Parramatta a Chinese girl in her twenties or thirties got on and sat next to him, snuggling up. He put his arm around her, and for several stops they stayed like that, her head on his shoulder, his face turned towards hers, intensely talking. I was busy looking out the window on my side and only noticed the girl get off several stations later. I assumed the guy got off too, but no, he was still sitting there and got off at Town Hall. I wondered if they were having an affair, grabbing each opportunity to see each other, even if it was only travelling on the train for twenty minutes together. It brings a whole new dimension to the romance of rail.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Candlicious
My past is littered with failed multi-level-marketing attempts. In the 90s a close friend got me into Amway. It was disastrous. I didn't even manage to get one friend or colleague to 'look at the plan'.
Two years later I was more or less press-ganged into joining NuSkin at a women-only luncheon. I sold a couple of bottles of rather nice skin and face gunk but that was a fizzer, too.
Six years ago a colleague persuaded me to join Agel, saying I couldn't fail. Agel sells high-end vitamins. Unfortunately, good as the product was, the price was a bit of a killer, and as a rep I had to buy two boxes at month at around $100 each to stay in the business. I had no takers for becoming a rep under me, and, a couple of thousand dollars later, got out of that one.
At that point, I swore I would never again get involved in an MLM business as clearly I was not a born salesperson.
Why obviously explains why I've just signed up to PartyLite to become a candle lady, doesn't it?
The difference is, this time I have real faith in the product - and my friends are urging me to join so they can buy candles from me and hold candle parties with me presenting, so they get candle freebies of their own. I have finally found something people want to buy from me.
I am a candle addict. I have candles throughout the house and bugger the ozone layer and my carbon footprint, I thoroughly enjoy burning them. As a bit of a connoisseur of candles, I adore the PartyLite ones for their clean burn and good scents, which don't fade and aren't sickly overpowering. Before I even decided to become a 'candle lady' I was already a brand ambassador.
It was a tossup whether to try and supplement my income with PartyLite or Enjo, as I have big beliefs in both products. PartyLite won for the simple reason that people use and replace the candles quicker than they do the Enjo products. We'll treat ourselves with a pretty, sweet-smelling candle; it's an affordable luxury which starts at $17 - less than most lipsticks. We don't think of buying a cleaning glove as treating ourselves (but we are really, because we're cleaning the house without chemicals and our bodies will thank us). The money isn't quite as good with PartyLite but the starter kit is cheaper, and people really WANT to hold candle parties; already I have three friends who want to host one for me.
This time, I have also done my homework with my accountant. You see, most people who join an MLM business hear the words "expenses are tax deductible" and rub their hands happily. People trying to get you to join an MLM will tell you they are deducting their expenses so you can too, and if their MLM business is bringing them income which is higher than the tax-free threshold, they may well be deducting their expenses. However. The tax man gets grumpy on MLM people starting out who try and claim everything they spend on their business - Agel samples, Amway samples etc - as a tax deduction when they are not yet getting a large income from their MLM business. If your MLM business is earning less than the tax-free threshold, the ATO treats it as a hobby business and you can't claim expenses.
In my case, the main expenses I'll have are buying sets of new brochures from time to time and other stationery. Any candles or accessories I want to add to my kit I will get from 'hosting' my own candle party from time to time, as there are freebies for every person who hosts a party and depending on the takings from the party, the free candles could be up to $200 in value. If I achieve sales targets in the first three months the company will also give me a number of free accessories to use in my display kit.
My aim is that in a couple of years I can wind down the computer stuff and be, mainly, a candle lady. Ideally with a team under me, as that's how you really start to make an income from the business, obviously.
I hope, hope, hope I have found my niche. I need an extra income, I need something I can be passionate and confident talking about and demonstrating, and I need something people can afford and want. Hope it doesn't all go up in smoke!
Two years later I was more or less press-ganged into joining NuSkin at a women-only luncheon. I sold a couple of bottles of rather nice skin and face gunk but that was a fizzer, too.
Six years ago a colleague persuaded me to join Agel, saying I couldn't fail. Agel sells high-end vitamins. Unfortunately, good as the product was, the price was a bit of a killer, and as a rep I had to buy two boxes at month at around $100 each to stay in the business. I had no takers for becoming a rep under me, and, a couple of thousand dollars later, got out of that one.
At that point, I swore I would never again get involved in an MLM business as clearly I was not a born salesperson.
Why obviously explains why I've just signed up to PartyLite to become a candle lady, doesn't it?
The difference is, this time I have real faith in the product - and my friends are urging me to join so they can buy candles from me and hold candle parties with me presenting, so they get candle freebies of their own. I have finally found something people want to buy from me.
I am a candle addict. I have candles throughout the house and bugger the ozone layer and my carbon footprint, I thoroughly enjoy burning them. As a bit of a connoisseur of candles, I adore the PartyLite ones for their clean burn and good scents, which don't fade and aren't sickly overpowering. Before I even decided to become a 'candle lady' I was already a brand ambassador.
It was a tossup whether to try and supplement my income with PartyLite or Enjo, as I have big beliefs in both products. PartyLite won for the simple reason that people use and replace the candles quicker than they do the Enjo products. We'll treat ourselves with a pretty, sweet-smelling candle; it's an affordable luxury which starts at $17 - less than most lipsticks. We don't think of buying a cleaning glove as treating ourselves (but we are really, because we're cleaning the house without chemicals and our bodies will thank us). The money isn't quite as good with PartyLite but the starter kit is cheaper, and people really WANT to hold candle parties; already I have three friends who want to host one for me.
This time, I have also done my homework with my accountant. You see, most people who join an MLM business hear the words "expenses are tax deductible" and rub their hands happily. People trying to get you to join an MLM will tell you they are deducting their expenses so you can too, and if their MLM business is bringing them income which is higher than the tax-free threshold, they may well be deducting their expenses. However. The tax man gets grumpy on MLM people starting out who try and claim everything they spend on their business - Agel samples, Amway samples etc - as a tax deduction when they are not yet getting a large income from their MLM business. If your MLM business is earning less than the tax-free threshold, the ATO treats it as a hobby business and you can't claim expenses.
In my case, the main expenses I'll have are buying sets of new brochures from time to time and other stationery. Any candles or accessories I want to add to my kit I will get from 'hosting' my own candle party from time to time, as there are freebies for every person who hosts a party and depending on the takings from the party, the free candles could be up to $200 in value. If I achieve sales targets in the first three months the company will also give me a number of free accessories to use in my display kit.
My aim is that in a couple of years I can wind down the computer stuff and be, mainly, a candle lady. Ideally with a team under me, as that's how you really start to make an income from the business, obviously.
I hope, hope, hope I have found my niche. I need an extra income, I need something I can be passionate and confident talking about and demonstrating, and I need something people can afford and want. Hope it doesn't all go up in smoke!
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
The Scarlet Pimpernel strikes again... and again... and again
Early in 2012 I spoke of my search for The Scarlet Pimpernel, a client for whom I did a lot of work over the course of around twelve months, and who (still) owes me payment for quite a bit of it.
I couldn't find her then and didn't have the money to hire a private detective until early this year, when I finally got a new address for her. It wasn't what I expected. She is living in a furnished apartment on the north shore waterfront. This cool pad with superb views is a holiday/long let rental advertised for $1400 a week by its managers.
To say I was gobsmacked was an understatement. Actually, I didn't believe what the detective told me. I thought it must be one of her more well-off family members who lived there as the Pimpernel is more or less broke. Broke enough not to pay her suppliers.
Two months later I had phone calls from two people I'd never heard of before but they had one thing in common - TSP owed them money too. They both confirmed the address I'd been given was correct.
I got my solicitor onto the job and we launched a new statement of claim against TSP. This time it included interest on the original sum. I can imagine the Pimpernel hit the roof when it was finally delivered to her. By that point she wasn't opening her door to anyone let alone a process server, and now I know why.
It's not just me and the two others (who have since been paid and in one case accepted a much smaller payment just to stop TSP bullying herself and her staff and harassing them via phone and email). There is another guy taking her to court for several thousand dollars. There is a former employer gagging her as she has been badmouthing his company and causing trouble with his staff and that is in progress in the courts this month too. There was another firm she owed around $15K to but bullied them down to only paying half, citing that she doesn't have a printer at her home so couldn't print out a contract to sign and therefore didn't formally agree to the initial sum; she has threatened them with legal action if they object. Today I spoke to yet another person who is owed money for design services and is about to set a lawyer onto TSP.
So that makes seven with a grievance or who are owed money, and let's add the person who my process server tried to find at TSP's old address a couple of years ago, around, I suspect, the time I was doing work for TSP. I don't know who that is but TSP owed them money too.
TSP is, I think, going into meltdown. She took down her corporate website a few months back and this month her blog is missing and her Facebook corporate page is gone. On Twitter she has described herself as being offline for now. The Scarlet Pimpernel is doing a vanishing act.
Until recently TSP has had a pet lawyer, her boyfriend, but I understand they have broken up and I suspect with summonses and statements of claim flying at TSP from all directions, TSP is probably at her wit's end.
I suspect she may do a bolt and my solicitor is lodging a Default Judgement against her tomorrow; hopefully she is still living in the expensive pad and that will arrive in her letterbox. If she doesn't challenge it within two weeks it goes to court. Once it goes through court it's valid for twelve years.
In a way I feel sorry for her, as her behaviour has followed a consistent pattern for many years - one of the people I've spoken to this year told me he had to chase her with a debt collector ten years ago and again earlier this year for a second transaction. He'd forgotten about her and it wasn't until she didn't pay him this year that he twigged the name was familiar, checked his records and the rest is history.
She clearly has mental illness of some sort and admits openly to it. She never said anything about her mental state to me when I was working for her, but has been blatant about it to people since then, as if that is an excuse for her behaviour. I do hope she doesn't do anything stupid - if I were in so much financial trouble I'd be feeling suicidal, especially if I didn't have a house to sell to cover my debts and legal fees.
But while I feel sorry for her I'm still angry with her; angry for lying to me and telling the same sort of lies to other businesses who she has treated in the same way. I'm not sure whether she deliberately engages freelancers and small businesses knowing she can't and won't pay them or whether she hopes her ship will come in and the money will magically appear from one of her other contracts. If it's the latter the ship is the Titanic.
The story continues...
I couldn't find her then and didn't have the money to hire a private detective until early this year, when I finally got a new address for her. It wasn't what I expected. She is living in a furnished apartment on the north shore waterfront. This cool pad with superb views is a holiday/long let rental advertised for $1400 a week by its managers.
To say I was gobsmacked was an understatement. Actually, I didn't believe what the detective told me. I thought it must be one of her more well-off family members who lived there as the Pimpernel is more or less broke. Broke enough not to pay her suppliers.
Two months later I had phone calls from two people I'd never heard of before but they had one thing in common - TSP owed them money too. They both confirmed the address I'd been given was correct.
I got my solicitor onto the job and we launched a new statement of claim against TSP. This time it included interest on the original sum. I can imagine the Pimpernel hit the roof when it was finally delivered to her. By that point she wasn't opening her door to anyone let alone a process server, and now I know why.
It's not just me and the two others (who have since been paid and in one case accepted a much smaller payment just to stop TSP bullying herself and her staff and harassing them via phone and email). There is another guy taking her to court for several thousand dollars. There is a former employer gagging her as she has been badmouthing his company and causing trouble with his staff and that is in progress in the courts this month too. There was another firm she owed around $15K to but bullied them down to only paying half, citing that she doesn't have a printer at her home so couldn't print out a contract to sign and therefore didn't formally agree to the initial sum; she has threatened them with legal action if they object. Today I spoke to yet another person who is owed money for design services and is about to set a lawyer onto TSP.
So that makes seven with a grievance or who are owed money, and let's add the person who my process server tried to find at TSP's old address a couple of years ago, around, I suspect, the time I was doing work for TSP. I don't know who that is but TSP owed them money too.
TSP is, I think, going into meltdown. She took down her corporate website a few months back and this month her blog is missing and her Facebook corporate page is gone. On Twitter she has described herself as being offline for now. The Scarlet Pimpernel is doing a vanishing act.
Until recently TSP has had a pet lawyer, her boyfriend, but I understand they have broken up and I suspect with summonses and statements of claim flying at TSP from all directions, TSP is probably at her wit's end.
I suspect she may do a bolt and my solicitor is lodging a Default Judgement against her tomorrow; hopefully she is still living in the expensive pad and that will arrive in her letterbox. If she doesn't challenge it within two weeks it goes to court. Once it goes through court it's valid for twelve years.
In a way I feel sorry for her, as her behaviour has followed a consistent pattern for many years - one of the people I've spoken to this year told me he had to chase her with a debt collector ten years ago and again earlier this year for a second transaction. He'd forgotten about her and it wasn't until she didn't pay him this year that he twigged the name was familiar, checked his records and the rest is history.
She clearly has mental illness of some sort and admits openly to it. She never said anything about her mental state to me when I was working for her, but has been blatant about it to people since then, as if that is an excuse for her behaviour. I do hope she doesn't do anything stupid - if I were in so much financial trouble I'd be feeling suicidal, especially if I didn't have a house to sell to cover my debts and legal fees.
But while I feel sorry for her I'm still angry with her; angry for lying to me and telling the same sort of lies to other businesses who she has treated in the same way. I'm not sure whether she deliberately engages freelancers and small businesses knowing she can't and won't pay them or whether she hopes her ship will come in and the money will magically appear from one of her other contracts. If it's the latter the ship is the Titanic.
The story continues...
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Four little words
What are the four words you'd like most to hear?
If you're a mother, it's probably your child saying, "I love you, Mum."
Maybe it's your partner saying something similar: "I love you, darling."
It could be the tax office, telling you, "You have a refund."
For the shopaholics among us, "Absolutely everything half price!" is a winner.
Someone said four little words to me yesterday which lifted an enormous weight off my mind: "You don't have cancer."
A few weeks before I'd been for my first ever mammogram, and when I received a letter in the mail calling me back for a second appointment, I froze. That meant they'd found something, and that something could be anything or nothing.
The letter reassuringly said that 90% of women who were called for a second appointment were found not to have cancer.
The pessimist in me screamed, "What if I'm in the other 10%???!!!"
In the two weeks between receiving the letter and my tests yesterday, the "10%" hung in the back of my mind like a monster in a child's wardrobe; lurking and dark, just waiting to pop to the front of my mind, particularly around 2am each night.
I'd seen a close friend go through breast cancer treatment two years ago. I saw how exhausted she became as the chemicals damaged every organ in her body as they systemically killed the cancer cells. She had to paint her fingernails with dark polish to prevent them falling off, apparently. A thin woman, she became bloated around her middle. Her taste buds went on holiday. Despite using a 'cold cap' during treatment - which freezes your scalp and stops the chemo attacking the follicles - she lost patches of hair and, sadly, brought to mind a picture of a dog with mange. Even afterwards, when the hair grew back in, the effects of chemo were still making themselves known. A keen jogger, she found her legs turned to lead very quickly; even walking exhausted her leg muscles and still does. A side effect of the drugs was cataracts developing in both eyes, very quickly. Within six months she was almost legally blind. It can take five years to fully recover from chemo and all its side effects. It's a gruelling journey and the thought of taking that journey too chilled me.
Yesterday I had another squishy mammogram, followed by an ultrasound. I began to get my hopes up when the woman using the ultrasound was taking ages to find whatever it was she was looking for. She must have been swiping the machine up and down my right boob for a good ten minutes before making a satisfied noise and capturing several images.
"I'll just get the doctor," she said happily.
So you can imagine my relief when, after prodding my boob himself and doing some ultrasounding, the doctor told me, "You don't have cancer." Four wonderful little words! A sweet little sentence! He decided the thing that was showing up was a cluster of tiny cysts, harmless enough.
"Relief" isn't a big enough word. I could almost physically feel worry floating out of my body. I swear I got dressed quicker than anyone on earth, quicker than a lover caught in bed by their rival. In between pulling my top on I breathed out hearty "thank you"s to everyone I could see.
I drove home grinning, delirious. I put The Beatles on the car stereo and sang along loudly. I was in the 90%.
For those of you in the 10%, you have my heartfelt sympathy, and my very warm wishes that your journey won't be too horrendous, and you'll get your life back sooner rather than later. Please forgive me if I am so bloody overjoyed right now that I won't be joining you.
If you're a mother, it's probably your child saying, "I love you, Mum."
Maybe it's your partner saying something similar: "I love you, darling."
It could be the tax office, telling you, "You have a refund."
For the shopaholics among us, "Absolutely everything half price!" is a winner.
Someone said four little words to me yesterday which lifted an enormous weight off my mind: "You don't have cancer."
A few weeks before I'd been for my first ever mammogram, and when I received a letter in the mail calling me back for a second appointment, I froze. That meant they'd found something, and that something could be anything or nothing.
The letter reassuringly said that 90% of women who were called for a second appointment were found not to have cancer.
The pessimist in me screamed, "What if I'm in the other 10%???!!!"
In the two weeks between receiving the letter and my tests yesterday, the "10%" hung in the back of my mind like a monster in a child's wardrobe; lurking and dark, just waiting to pop to the front of my mind, particularly around 2am each night.
I'd seen a close friend go through breast cancer treatment two years ago. I saw how exhausted she became as the chemicals damaged every organ in her body as they systemically killed the cancer cells. She had to paint her fingernails with dark polish to prevent them falling off, apparently. A thin woman, she became bloated around her middle. Her taste buds went on holiday. Despite using a 'cold cap' during treatment - which freezes your scalp and stops the chemo attacking the follicles - she lost patches of hair and, sadly, brought to mind a picture of a dog with mange. Even afterwards, when the hair grew back in, the effects of chemo were still making themselves known. A keen jogger, she found her legs turned to lead very quickly; even walking exhausted her leg muscles and still does. A side effect of the drugs was cataracts developing in both eyes, very quickly. Within six months she was almost legally blind. It can take five years to fully recover from chemo and all its side effects. It's a gruelling journey and the thought of taking that journey too chilled me.
Yesterday I had another squishy mammogram, followed by an ultrasound. I began to get my hopes up when the woman using the ultrasound was taking ages to find whatever it was she was looking for. She must have been swiping the machine up and down my right boob for a good ten minutes before making a satisfied noise and capturing several images.
"I'll just get the doctor," she said happily.
So you can imagine my relief when, after prodding my boob himself and doing some ultrasounding, the doctor told me, "You don't have cancer." Four wonderful little words! A sweet little sentence! He decided the thing that was showing up was a cluster of tiny cysts, harmless enough.
"Relief" isn't a big enough word. I could almost physically feel worry floating out of my body. I swear I got dressed quicker than anyone on earth, quicker than a lover caught in bed by their rival. In between pulling my top on I breathed out hearty "thank you"s to everyone I could see.
I drove home grinning, delirious. I put The Beatles on the car stereo and sang along loudly. I was in the 90%.
For those of you in the 10%, you have my heartfelt sympathy, and my very warm wishes that your journey won't be too horrendous, and you'll get your life back sooner rather than later. Please forgive me if I am so bloody overjoyed right now that I won't be joining you.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Old flames and their car dealer doppelgängers
I met my old lover
On the street last night
She seemed so glad to see me
I just smiled
And we talked about some old times
And we drank ourselves some beers
Still crazy afler all these years
Oh, still crazy after all these years
- Paul Simon.
Well, I didn't exactly meet my old lover. But I googled him. I googled all of them (didn't take long... how embarrassing is that!?).
I found something rather strange. There are people with the same names as two of my old flames operating second hand car dealerships in New Zealand.
I know the Kiwi car dealers aren't my old flames, as one old flame sputtered out well and truly in the late 1990s - poor guy died with a brain tumour. The other is an engineer and living in Hong Kong.
The sputtered out old flame was, in fact, a car salesman himself and had been all his life - which made me wonder whether names affect your job destiny. He had a slightly uncommon name. It wasn't Ford Prefect either.
But what are the odds of two people having car dealerships and the same names as my old boyfriends? Perhaps I exist in a strange kind of space-time continuum.
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